“I see my child,” said he gently, “you are not aware of the proceedings of coming of age; you have not heard, perhaps, that as your guardian, I hold in my hands the fortune your father bequeathed to you; it was his portion as a younger son, for, poor fellow, he had the family failing, and never could live within his income. Your ten thousand--he always called it yours--he never encroached upon--and that sum, at least, is secured to you.” Although Kate knew that her uncle was her guardian, and had heard that some property would revert to her, what its amount was she had not the most remote idea of, nor that her power over it should commence so soon. “I see uncle--I understand all you say,” said she, hurriedly; “I am of age, and the owner of ten thousand pounds.” The tone of decision she employed, half terrified the O'Donoghue for the prudence of his communication, and he almost hesitated to answer her directly--“Yes, my child, it is a rent-charge--a----” “I care not for the name, sir; does it represent the value?” “Unquestionably it does.” “Take it, then, dearest uncle,” said she, flinging herself upon his neck, “take it and use it, so that it may bring some comfort to yourself, some ease of mind at least, and make your home a happier one. What need to think of the boys--Mark and Herbert are not of the mould that need fear failure, whatever path they follow; and, as for me, when you grow weary of me, the Sacré Cour will gladly take me back; indeed, they feel their work of conversion of me but very imperfectly executed,” added she, smiling, “and the dear nuns would be well pleased to finish their task.” “Kate, my child, my own darling,” cried the old man, clasping her to his heart, “this may not, this cannot be.” “It must, and it shall be, uncle,” said she, resolutely. “If my dear father's will be not a nullity, I have power over my fortune.” “But not to effect your ruin, Kate.” “No, sir, nor shall I. Will my dear uncle love me less for the consciousness in my own heart, that I am doing right? Will he have a smile the less for me, that I can return it with an affection warmer from very happiness? I cannot believe this; nor can I think that you would render your brother's daughter unworthy of her father. You would not refuse _him_.” Her lip trembled, and her eyes grew full, as she uttered the last few words in a voice, every word of which went to the old man's heart. “There is but one way, Kate.” “What need of more, uncle; do we want a choice of roads, if we see a straight path before us?” “Yes, dearest--but it will be said I should not have suffered you to do this--that in accepting a loan.” “A loan!” uttered she, reproachfully. “As that, or nothing, can I ever touch a farthing of it,” replied the O'Donoghue. “No, no! Distress and hardship have been a weary load this many a year; but all sense of honour is not yet obliterated in this poor heart.”